The off mule stumbled and brayed. He cursed it whimperingly and jerked at the reins, While his heart jerked, too. The super-Shippy was gone. He was alone and scared and late on the road. My God, but he was scared of being a spy And the mute-faced woman in Richmond and war and life! He had some papers sewn in his boots all right And they’d look at the papers while he stood sweating before them, Crumple them up and bully him with cross speech, “Couldn’t you even find out where Heth’s men are? Can’t you draw a map? You don’t know about Stonewall Jackson? Why don’t you know it? What’s this ford by the church? My God, man, what do you think you are out there for? You’ll have to do better next time, I can tell you that. We’ll send you over Route 7. We had a man there, But he’s been reported killed⁠—” He shuddered in vain, Seeing a rope and a tree and a dangling weight And the mute-faced woman sending a paper off In somebody’s else’s boots, and somebody saying In an ice-cream voice to another scared little man.